


Seven Days of Crack: A Potion Both Fundamentally, Absurdly Unnecessary and Impossibly Difficult.

by reluctant_abandon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dominance, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctant_abandon/pseuds/reluctant_abandon
Summary: Hermione Granger, back at Hogwarts for her final year, would never admit she missed war. She would, however, risk her professors' disappointment, her reputation, and untold House points to break into the Potions classroom--again and again--all to brew a ridiculous one-year anniversary gift for her friends. Ginny's obsession with erotic absurdities from the muggle internet was puzzling, but, more importantly, almost impossible to duplicate. So, of course, Hermione agreed to try. If she'd known the potion would target her, instead, she would have, at the very least, curbed her gleeful cackling while brewing the monstrosity. And Snape ... why Snape?**A classic potion-accident fic. All our favorite--my favorite, anyway--crack tropes will be swinging by. A little foreplay because sexual tension is the bestest, and then some *fingers crossed* filthy hot smut. Given the potion will be forcing their hands much of the time, it may trigger some--don't read if you're delicate--but it's not too dark and I guarantee a happy ending. Enjoy!





	1. Snake Bites

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to strengthen my het game, so I decided to bust out a little Hermione/Snape. It will be updated regularly and finished soon. (Sooner if you comment and tell me it's worth writing! Yeah, no, I'm not subtle. This is a hostage situation.) Thanks for reading. :D

Hermione’s triumphant, beaming smile flickered into concern as she glanced toward the Potions’ door. She’d heard…. Nothing, apparently. Returning her gaze to the ridiculous insanity of a potion both fundamentally, absurdly unnecessary and impossibly difficult, Hermione felt sure she’d created a true one of a kind. Though, if she were honest, she’d admit to some concern. Harry felt sure Ginny would love every minute of the potion’s effects. The redhead had written the fantasy in an erotic letter to Harry, apparently; Hermione had, thankfully, gotten the bullet-points version. And, yes, she’d allowed Harry to badger her into attempting the potion—largely because he’d appealed to her academic curiosity, pride, boredom, and lust for a challenge—but a tiny part of Hermione feared this anniversary might be their last. 

But what did she know of relationships? Not much, obviously. Only—

Now, that definitely sounded like … Snape! As the door opened, she cast the spell to distort her image, and immediately grimaced. It’d been a fear-based instinct more than anything, and she wished she could take it back. Of all the luck! She’d been brewing in the classroom, at night, for the past three weeks; all without notice. Now, with it finished, she got caught? And instead of acting like a woman who’d fought and survived a war, she tried to hide and lie? Poorly, at that! True, the man’s edge had dulled with Voldemort’s death, but he wasn’t dense! He’d smell the potion in the air, see the shimmering distortion, and—

“Truly? As if the infringement upon my personal space and property were not enough? You wish to insult my intelligence?” 

Yet, instead of dispersing her pathetic attempt at hiding, he circled closer. Nose in the air, he zeroed in on her location like a bloodhound, the hands holding his wand clenched behind his back as his chest lifted. Oddly, even as fear parted her lips, Hermione felt emotion burning behind her eyes. In the months they’d been back, she hadn’t seen him look so much himself. The smug bastard … her smile soured with memories of his new, faraway expression, sagging shoulders, and forever-bowed head. 

He’d survived that shack, the war, but some part of him hadn’t. And as much as she should be afraid, was—still—afraid, she couldn’t help but stare after his predatory grace like an old friend, a ghost. Her chest ached. 

“Tell me, is the potion, whose ingredients you so blithely stole from me, simply forbidden or outright illegal?”

She’d given that some thought, actually. It couldn’t be illegal if no one had named it illegal, right? It would almost certainly become illegal should anyone be bothered to term and classify it, but until that happened … grey zone? 

“I asked you a question, Miss Granger.” 

Oh. Her stomach clenched as he circled her yet again. Even knowing he’d identified her, perhaps because of it, she had the oddest impulse to run. That’d get some color in the bastard’s face! 

Chest heaving, she felt her mouth curl into a wide grin. Why, she didn’t know and couldn’t explain. She needed to stop, confess, and take her scolding. Instead, she wanted more. To run, or fight, or … adrenaline pulsing, her grin wavered. This was their lives now? Sleepwalking through months at a time only to get a flicker, a taste, of their true selves in the dark of night? 

The second she dropped the spell, even that would crash and vanish. An anti-climatic glare and consequences she couldn’t make herself care about. And, truly, she’d tried. For three weeks, as she’d sat through breakfast and classes, she’d chided herself. If she was caught, she’d disappoint her professors, tarnish her reputation, and deprive her House of points others had worked hard to achieve. Each day, she’d declared herself too old for such nonsense. Each night, she’d crept through the halls and toward the classroom, celebrating the pounding of her heart. 

But what was she meant to do? Battle Snape? With a sigh, she lifted her wand, then paused. Blinked. 

“Ah, Professor….” 

“So, she speaks. And here I thought—”

Slowly, so very slowly, Hermione dragged her wand through the air, casting away the distortion. Hovering in midair, its empty cauldron left below, the potion stretched between them in a long, double-headed snake. One head swayed before Hermione’s gaze. The other had been tracking Snape as he circled, but now settled before him. 

“Explain—”

“Shh.” 

It wasn’t much of a plan, as plans went, but she had a strong feeling they needed to do, say, and think nothing. Maybe, if she shut her eyes…. Snape’s eyes narrowed as he raised his wand. Snarling inward, Hermione tensed to dive behind the desk. The snakes widened their jaws and struck in an instant. Even as she felt pressure and a fiery streak of pleasure-pain against her throat, she watched the rope of potion coil around Snape’s neck, dragging him nearer to her and her nearer to him. 

Eyes wide, Hermione tried to think, tried to brainstorm, tried to—

Her chest slammed into Snape’s. Instinctively protecting her nose, she’d managed to tilt her head before the tether between them tightened even more unpleasantly. So, she felt his mouth, his breath, against her hair as his lips moved, and saw his frantically swirling wand. With a soft cry, she caught his wrist and attempted to halt him. He growled and tried to shake her off, but Hermione dug her nails in and offered a growl of her own.

“Stop. Just stop.” 

It was already too late, and whatever he thought was happening, whatever he hoped his panicked spells might accomplished, he was wrong. He was more likely to do them harm than stop the potion. Which, actually … as the ramifications of what was happening assaulted her mind, Hermione dropped her hand. Let him kill them both. 

“Speak, Miss Granger.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” 

As the pressure holding them together eased, she took a step back and grimaced at Snape’s new tattoo. A snake’s striking head with three loops of its gilded body coiled around his neck. Hermione touched her own neck, knowing an identical tattoo laid there. Snarling, the tall man took a long stride backward, then another. On the third, she followed him, her mouth parted to explain but no words emerging. He took another step backward. She followed. 

“Miss Granger!” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Explain yourself!” 

“I … I am so sorry.” 

He took a step forward, glowering. Hermione retreated a step, hands held before her in defense. Becoming aware of her gaping mouth, she slapped a hand to it—the best she could do, as her jaw refused to close. 

“Woman, you will explain yourself at once!” 

“I….” 

“Yes, you. You caused this and you will explain! You have ten seconds or I will pull the information from your mind.” 

“No! Oh, Merlin. Professor, I’m s—”

“Stop blathering apologies and get to the point.” 

“I messed up. I’m … I mean, this wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

“Yes, I’d rather gathered, you simpering….” 

Eyes snapping closed, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled a deep breath. After long seconds, he opened his eyes and, holy fuck, was that a smile? Pure, unholy panic shattered through her. They were going to die! 

“We won’t die. We’re fine!” She dared to glance into his eyes. A quiet whimper escaped her parted lips. “Professor, you won’t be happy.” 

“And testing the limits of my extremely limited patience will help? Whatever has happened, I will handle the situation, but I can only do so if you progress past your charming self-flagellation and find the strength of will to utter a handful of words when, every other minute of every other day that you are within hearing distance, I am besieged by them.” 

Hermione huffed, hands falling naturally to her hips. “Well. Fine.” Still, her lips parted and gaped for long seconds, the words falling together in her mind, this way and that, but never sounding like something she wished to say aloud. 

“Miss Granger!” 

Glaring, she took several huge, quick steps backward. On the third one, he came stumbling after her, yanked forward by the tether stretched between them. Not sure why, she took another—just to watch him hop and glare. 

“We’re stuck together.” 

His arms crossed, chin raising. Unthinking, Hermione took a step closer to him, excited by something she saw there. Even she couldn’t say what it was or what she wanted, but her heart pounded, and her blood sang, and she chased the sensation. 

“How long?” 

“Twenty-four hours.” 

“That’s not the extent of the potion.” 

She laughed without a trace of humor. “Not at all.” 

“Do you think your reticence charming? Would you prefer I use Legilimency?”

She bounced on her heels, anxiety returning. “No, Professor.” 

“Then, speak.” 

“Professor, it doesn’t matter. Trust me—”

“I do not.” 

“There’s nothing! If you could stop this, I’d be begging you to fix it.” She bit at her lip and dared to meet his gaze before bowing her head once again. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s too complicated, too layered. Intuitive.” She grimaced. “Professor, I gave it the fluidity to adapt.” 

One of his eyebrows quirked. “You would qualify this assault as an adaption?” When she only grimaced and nodded, he said, “I see. In a bid for efficiency, I shall ask you questions. I expect you to nod or shake your head. Is your intellectual capacity equal to the task of simple muscle movements, do you believe?” 

Part of her wanted to blurt the whole thing out, just to shut him up. Only, in truth, her angry defiance quickly faded to bouncing anxiety as she tried to form the words in her mind. What would happen? Well, she knew, or, could guess … she had some foresight into what would happen, but…. 

“I can’t do this.” 

“You can. If you are anything, Miss Granger, it is an apt pupil, yes? You will say nothing, think nothing, and do nothing but confirm or deny my statements.” He took a step closer, Hermione’s gaze jerking toward his face in alarm. “Now, if I were to judge by scent, I would hypothesize you have brewed a love potion. Is that correct?” 

His tone was biting. Hermione was happy to shake her head, though she added a small shrug to the end. Not love, exactly. Thinking of the inevitable, her face crumbled as she sucked in a shuddering breath. 

“Focus.” Summoned by his tone, she looked into his eyes. Then, unable to hold the intimacy, her gaze fell to his mouth and stayed there. “Is the intended effect physical contact of a sexual nature?” 

Her eyes slammed closed. She nodded. 

“Will it be voluntary?” 

She grimaced, her body bouncing with indecision. 

“Or compulsory?” 

A nod. 

“Was it intended for lovers?” 

The word shouldn’t be in his mouth. A barrage of images, of foregone conclusions, flashed through her mind. She knew she was nodding, but her arms had folded around herself. 

“Do not think.” 

Straightening her shoulders, she nodded. It was stupid, this game. She should open her mouth and speak. She wasn’t weak or simple, but there were too many words and none at all, and— 

“Will the potion’s effects expire?” 

She nodded, but frowned. 

“How long? Speak now.” 

Chest aching, she whispered, “Seven days.” 

“Yet, our binding will last one day?” 

Oddly relieved with the return to silence, she nodded. 

“At which point a new effect will begin?” 

Fuck! Her hand slammed to her eyes before dragging down her face. Finally, her head fell forward in a simile of a nod. 

“Does each effect last twenty-four hours?” he demanded, annoyance straining his voice.

Hermione nodded. And, finally, the right words were very plain. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologize to yourself. I have grown accustomed to few choices and no power.” He sneered. “I expect you will find the experience considerably more noteworthy.” 

As her thoughts spun, she missed the game. Missed his rules. She wanted him to order her mind blank and her focus on him, but he only glared. Hermione stared at him anyway, determined to sink her teeth into the moment and cling even as the moment stretched on without incident or anchor. Finally, she shook herself. She had to deal with this. It was her mind. Her responsibility. Why was she looking to him? 

“Fool,” he muttered. “Those are your lab notes?” 

Glancing over her shoulder quickly, she found them, of course, where she’d left them. Heart hammering, she exclaimed, “No!” 

“Keeping me in the dark cannot possibly be useful. Hand them here.” 

“No.” She opened her mouth, intending to say something more, but only added, “No, Sir.” 

As in, never ever, hell no, shoot her now! He growled and took a step toward her. Hermione ran in the opposite direction. He must have planted his feet, though, because she hit an invisible wall and bounced backward. Landing on her ass, she scrambled and fought as he dragged her the short distance to her notes. Then, he had them. In his hand. 

Hermione leapt to her feet and made a grab for the notebook. Snape quirked an eyebrow and held her at arm’s distance as she struggled and writhed for long seconds. Finally, she set her feet, reached for her wand, and demanded, “Give them back.” 

His lips parted on a silent laugh. “You think so?” 

Actually, no. Watching the wicked glee, the return of that ghostly predator, as his shoulders slid back and his chin rose, Hermione dropped her wand hand with a snarl. “Do not read that!” 

“If there is any chance at reversing—”

“There’s not!” 

“Then I have a right to know how my body will be controlled for the next week, or do you not agree?” 

“I….” She buried her head in her hands, chest tightening to the point of pain. Remembering not only the information, but her pathetic, scandalous comments, she felt trapped and mortified to tears or violence. Both! In the end, her shoulders sagged and she said, “Please don’t. Please. Please, please, please. Please!” 

She heard him sigh. “Until morning. I keep the notes.” 

It worked? He’d relented? Sharp relief surged, but so did confusion. “Really? Thank you. I can … I’ll get it together, Professor. I promise. I won’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

Seven days. Even as the schedule loomed, a month’s worth of her gleeful cackles slapping her in the face, Hermione hardened her resolve. She could—she would—do this. Everything would be fine. Truly, she’d brewed an anniversary gift, not torture. For lovers, it’d be a lark—an adventure meant to strengthen their bond and intimacy. For two … what? Strangers, coworkers, enemies? Acquaintances? None of those words fit, but there was no great fondness or trust between them, either. Or…. She shook her head. Whatever was between them, or wasn’t, had never been acknowledged or denied. And, now … Snape thought he wanted to know, but Hermione wished she didn’t. 

“You made note, I hope, of how obliging I can be when you beg?” 

Hermione’s gaze snapped to his, her eyes narrowing. “Ah….” 

He smirked. “Stay close.” 

As if she had a choice. Still, she appreciated the warning as he launched into motion, her shorter legs scrambling to equal his long-legged pace. When she realized he intended to clear her workstation, Hermione almost volunteered to clean up her own mess—as ironic as that would have sounded. Then, she heard him inhale deeply through his nose and watched him study the splay of ingredients. He was investigating as he cleaned. Considering everything she’d done in the last three weeks and all the ingredients missing, Hermione crossed her arms and wished him luck of it. 

Her attention strayed. She jerked sideways, stumbling and fighting to stay on her feet. 

“We are walking.” 

“I see that.” 

Growling a humorless chuckle, she fought the urge, lost, and thunked the heel of her palm against her forehead. This was meant to improve communication. She knew that because she’d designed it. She’d laughed and theorized about it. They’d also, as the theory went, become increasingly conscious of and familiar with the other’s body as constant awareness became necessary. And every three hours…. 

After trailing behind him in silence for several minutes, she blurted, “Will we share your bed?” 

“I assumed you would sleep on the floor.” 

“Oh.” She nodded, but frowned. “I would, Sir. I like the floor, but—” 

“You like the floor?” 

“Sure. I guess.” Obviously not. She had no idea where the words came from. “The thing is, I’m not sure that will work.” 

He turned and leaned against her cleaned workstation. Not sure why, she attempted to take a step backward. Yanking at the edge of her tether, she obliged with a step closer instead, her chest tightening. Why hadn’t either of them turned on the lights? She’d been good and truly caught. There was no reason to skulk about in the shadows, darkness only making him loom larger. 

“Because?”

Hermione blinked. “Because what?” 

“Why do you want in my bed?” 

“Sir, that’s not … you know very well….” Crossing her arms, she glared as he smirked. “Sure. Um, there’s a requirement for five minutes of physical contact every three hours.” 

“You brewed that into the potion?” 

She shut her eyes as she nodded. “It was for Harry and Ginny, Sir. Not … obviously, I don’t have anyone. I mean, not obviously. I could have someone!” Her face fell in embarrassed failure, but she rebounded. “I wouldn’t put forth this much effort to strengthen a relationship of my own, is what I … Ginny reads erotic stories on the muggle internet. Everything was her idea.”

“That will be the last time you reference Potter and his girlfriend, I hope.” 

Utterly exhausted, she could only mutter, “Yes, Sir.” 

“Where would you like me to touch you?” 

As heat flooded her cheeks, Hermione squinted at her professor. Was he being purposely provocative? Just to watch her squirm with embarrassment? Deciding to deny him the pleasure, she took a steadying breath and announced, “A hug will do.” 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You plan for us to cuddle?” 

“I….” Hermione scrubbed at her burning face. “Call it what you’d like.” 

“Are there any mandates on position?” 

He didn’t look like he was smirking, but she heard it. Stomping her foot, she chided, “Professor.” 

“Yes?” 

“I know you’re trying to embarrassment me, and I don’t appreciate it. This will be hard enough.” 

The smirk manifested, then. “It may very well be. But you haven’t answered my question. Did you create a preference for position?”

She fidgeted, breath coming the slightest bit fast. From embarrassment, obviously. “Face to face.” 

“Indeed? Not the most comfortable way to sleep.” 

She’d told herself they could sleep however they wanted and wake up every three hours to fuck. She’d scribbled it in her notes with a sadistic “hahaha!” afterward. Now, imagining it, she felt keenly uncomfortable. Eyes closed, she whispered, “I’m aware. I apologize.” 

“You can sleep on my chest.” 

Utterly confused, she could only frown, chest heaving, and search his face for answers that weren’t there. Finally, his looming presence motionless as he said nothing, Hermione whispered, “Why?” 

“Would you prefer I drape myself atop you? Use your breasts as a pillow?”

Her lips parted. Even as shock stole her breath, she shook her head. 

“Then, in the future, let’s hope ‘because I said so’ will suffice.” 

Suddenly, her pounding heart reminded Hermione she was alive. With a shake of her head, she grinned. “I doubt it, Sir.” 

He blinked slowly, eyes flashing with excitement. “Time will tell.”


	2. Take It Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickies are good, too, right? *has zero impulse control*

By the time she entered Snape’s bedroom, her nerves were shot, her temper was seething, and exhaustion was exasperating every hardship. The bathroom adventure, for instance. Between the image distortion and the cancellation of sound, the entire endeavor was quick and without incident. Still, as she’d scrubbed at her teeth—her toothbrush and some clothes delivered by a house elf—she’d shuddered with fury. Of course, the whole damn thing was, undeniably, her fault, but that unfortunate truth wasn’t calming her temper one little bit. 

Merlin knew, she couldn’t blame Snape. Only a liar would call the man easy going, but he seemed oddly calm. Accepting. If he’d caused this nightmare, with the mood she was in, Hermione would have snarled, and whined, and bitched. Anything at all to distract herself from the inevitability of them in the bed together—touching.

She heard a noise and snapped around with a snarled, “What?” 

One of his eyebrows went up. And, as quick as that, she felt her anger evaporate into desperate helplessness, her face contorting until she ordered the emotion away. Voice soft, she repeated, “What?” 

“Dress for the night. You need sleep.” 

Right. How long had she been staring at his bed? Too long, apparently. His rooms were simple and elegant. Books were shoved everywhere. His notes and odds n’ ends cluttered several end tables, but it felt surprisingly warm. Everything was clean and dust free, and the bright amber of the wooden floors gleamed. She hadn’t expected a monument to Slytherins, but she had expected a sterile, joyless expression of his inner world. What she’d found instead was textured and complicated. His bedding was green, but not Slytherin green. A dusky, sage green with rose accents. Hermione wouldn’t say she loved it, aesthetically, but she understood it even less. 

“Miss Granger.” 

Grabbing a long nightshirt from the small pile, she turned her back to him, stripped off her jumper and shirt, and yanked the nightshirt over her head. As exhausted and numb as she’d thought herself, a tiny thrill of embarrassment sparked at her bared back. How thrilling he must find her white bra strap—if he was even looking, which he wouldn’t be. Beneath the long shirt, she unbuttoned and removed her skirt, left her black tights in place, and swayed toward his bed. 

She’d be hard pressed to expose less skin, but she still wanted to hide beneath the covers. They weren’t her covers. 

“Go on,” he ordered. 

A little late for pride, certainly, but she moved slowly and with what little grace she could summon. When she glanced up, he was watching her. Hermione fidgeted, not sure what he was looking at—what he was seeing. The hypocrite was still fully dressed; she saw that. 

As if reading her mind, his hand went to the buttons of his robe. Gulping, she averted her gaze. In the silent room, the whisper of cloth seemed loud. 

“Why go to such trouble?” Unthinking, she glanced toward him. His long, nimble fingers freed a shirt button, exposing another inch of pale skin. As her gaze slid away, he elaborated, “The potion.” 

Truly, she was tired. She’d been averaging five hours of sleep a night for the last three weeks, and sweet oblivion was calling. Instead, she shrugged a shoulder and said, “I had nothing better to do.” 

“If we survive the experience, I expect I will be impressed.” 

She looked at him, again. Didn’t mean to, exactly—why hadn’t he cast a distortion? With his shirt unbuttoned and gaping, his surprisingly toned chest on display, she couldn’t help but notice. He stood without shame or apparent concern, and, just as Hermione managed to drag her mind back to task, he shrugged the shirt off entirely. His arms, too, had very real definition, and Hermione couldn’t help but frown. Then, he threw his shirt onto the pile of her clothes occupying his bedside chair. Her lips parted on a gasp, some instinctive part of her scandalized. 

His shirt, the shirt that had spent all day against his skin, now laid atop and amid the clothes still warm from her body. It made zero sense, but she wanted to jump up and separate them. Half tempted to scold him, she glanced back in time to watch him flick open the button of his pants. With a squeak—image forever burned into her retinas—she trained her gaze on the ceiling and kept it there. 

Still, though…. It must be the exhaustion, because her genuine confusion could be explained no other way. She’d realized he had a body under his ever-present robes, obviously. Obviously. Maybe, like his rooms, she’d expected it to be cold and sterile? Just a definition-less grey slab with a frownie face carved into it with blades and hatred? Or, more likely, she’d given it absolutely no thought—which would explain surprise, but she didn’t feel surprised. She felt confused. Bewildered, even. Betrayed, maybe. 

“I’m tired,” she announced. 

“I know.” His soft huff of breath sounded suspiciously like amusement. “I have scant sympathy for you.” 

She shrugged. “I know. Still. I am.” 

“Yes. You are.” At the rustle of fabric, Hermione clenched her eyes shut, absolutely determined to avoid any further images of him she couldn’t forget. Then, he asked, “Should our skin touch?” 

Nope. She was not looking. “Put on your pants.” 

“Obviously. But do you want me shirtless?” 

Limp against the bed, her tired smile spread wide. “You’ve developed the oddest way of phrasing things.” 

“Have I?” 

Her chest heaved with hushed laughter. “You really have.” 

“So?” 

Hermione dragged a hand down her face. “What?” 

“How much of our skin needs to touch?” 

Oh. That. She’d had half-formed plans of subtlety and salvaged pride, but … so much effort. So, she nodded. Everything got warm and quiet, and then the bed dipped. She jerked and blinked, then moaned with pleasure at finding nothing but darkness. He’d shut off the lights at some point. Good. Very good. 

Then, without warning, his arms were around her and Hermione found herself sprawled atop him. With a squeak, she scrambled for some purchase as surprise forced the breath from her lungs. Her palms slid against the surprisingly soft skin of his upper arms before she slammed them to the mattress on either side of him. Then, immediately, she registered her spread thighs. She straddled him. Her right foot had snaked beneath his knee, but her left knee was pressed to the mattress. She felt bared and vulnerable. Indecently spread and exposed. 

“I can’t do this.”

“Relax.” 

“You relax! This is not happening!” As she squirmed, his hand landed on her upper thigh. “Professor!” 

“I suspect your knee was five seconds from causing me considerable pain.”

“Please, let’s talk about your dick.” 

The word just sort of plopped into existence between them. Hermione froze in horror. The foundation beneath her turned wobbly as his chest heaved. If she didn’t know the man, at all—which, maybe she didn’t—Hermione could swear he was laughing.

She whined, “Stop.” 

Sitting straight up, she felt the heady pressure of his body between her legs, and then threw herself sideways. There, she buried her face in her hands and waited for mortification to kill her outright. 

After several moments, he said, “I underestimated your inexperience.” 

“Professor! With all due respect … be quiet.” 

Silence fell. Blessed, heavy silence. Of course, with the silence came exhaustion, and with the exhaustion came anxious frustration. She wanted sleep! Spurred to action, she reached for him, then jerked her hand back before making contact. 

“I’m trying again, okay? I need to touch you.” 

The words sounded ridiculous even to her, but he said only, “Of course.” 

With no patience for further nonsense, Hermione angled her body, draped her stomach and chest sideways across his longer, broader body, and laid her head beneath his collarbone. There! Only, as the seconds passed, she felt uncomfortably stiff, sure she was too heavy or leaning on his spleen, and frustrated with the impossibility of remaining motionless all night. Additionally, his chest was not a pillow.

Just as she was about to give up—worst case scenario, the snake coiled them tight in the middle of the night, they suffered for five minutes, then went back to sleep; and, suddenly, that seemed fine—the comforter he’d pushed aside in his initial, disastrous effort, fell across her back. And, with it, the weight of his arm. She stiffened further, shocked. Yet, that shock had her chest heaving, and embarrassment had her focused solely on her breathing to limit the frantic press and slide of her breasts against him, and slowly, as his arm tightened, the warmth, and weight, and rhythmic breathing rendered her lax, and happy, and unaware. 

~~~ 

She woke up with an armful of something, her face nuzzled into skin that smelled deliciously rich and earthy. Her arms tightened as she hummed her pleasure. Then, a blast of chilled air rushed forward to ruin everything as the blanket was yanked away. Blinking and frowning into her day, Hermione edged back enough to realize she’d burrowed against his neck in the night. Huffing in confused displeasure, she found her arms looped beneath his armpits as she clung to his shoulders. 

A shiver ran down her spine as her eyes went wide. Both her legs were wrapped around one of his thighs. And … against her lower thigh. She felt it. 

As her whole body tensed with shock and the onslaught of adrenaline, sudden movement had her back thumping against the mattress, her stomach clenching as Snape reared over her. The only mode of inhaling air left to her, apparently, was on breathy gasps as her heart pounded. 

“Let go.” 

Bloody hell! Why was she still grasping at him? Mortified, she went limp and jerked her head to the side to hide. As he withdrew and sat on the edge of the bed, she slithered to her belly and buried her face in the mattress. Only, adrenaline truly had her in its grip, because remaining still dragged anxiety from places she hadn’t known existed. Nope. New plan. Absolute and total denial! 

Bounding to her knees, voice extra chipper, she chirped, “Morning! So, what’s on the schedule for today? I could eat, but then, where, right? We’ll have to tell….” 

As she realized just how accurate and depressing her babbling was, the awkwardness of her stupid, groping body revealed itself to be utterly inconsequential. They’d have to tell Headmistress McGonagall. But tell her what? Hermione hadn’t even revealed the true depth of this nightmare to Snape yet. 

Reminded, her gaze snapped around the room for her lab notebook. Swear to god, she’d eat the damn thing if it kept him from reading it. Yet, she saw it nowhere. He’d hidden it, of course. 

“One problem at a time. First, we shower.” 

She knew he didn’t mean together. It sounded like he did, though, and the image popped into her mind. Truly, though, she felt too beaten down for even an inward reaction. She only stared at the muscled expanse of his back with confused helplessness and trudged after him to the bathroom. 

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, as close as physically possible, and heard nothing. Not even the running water. And, even as her mind tried its damnedest to punish and shame her, a slow, steady heat built in her cheeks. He’d been in there several minutes longer than she would have anticipated. He’d stripped off his clothes inside the shower. He’d purposefully kept his back to her while walking to the bathroom. 

There was zero chance Professor Snape was touching himself on the other side of that thin, plastic curtain. A foot from her. Zero chance. Hermione rubbed her thighs together, still imagining the heated weight she’d felt there. Zero chance! 

A day ago, she’d have said he simply did not do that. Only, that suddenly seemed idiotic. His rooms were real, his chest was real, his back was real, and he knew how to laugh. The man was, actually, alive. He existed beyond a tormentor, a martyr, a savior. So, he probably did do that, but he wouldn’t! Not with her so close. 

Conflicting memories bombarded her. On their heels came the sudden realization that, in less than a week, this wouldn’t rank on the list of improprieties they’d be committing together. Maybe she should hope he was wanking. If the man had no hesitations or shame, she could feel slightly less horrific about forcing him to…. He’d hate her, wouldn’t he? He should. 

As the shower curtain slid open, she flinched but locked down her muscles. Forcing the tether to yank at him when he stood in a slick bathtub wouldn’t help anything. So, she only turned her head and looked up at him with sad eyes. 

His neutral expression turned pinched. “Do you plan to pout for the duration?” 

“I’m not pouting.” 

“I disagree.” 

Little droplets of water clung and slid against his skin. Hermione blinked away the distraction, and only felt a little disingenuous when she announced, “I feel horrible.” 

“Thus, the pouting.” 

“No. Look. I know you’ve never really liked, or … respected me, and—”

With a loud groan, he grabbed her shoulders, urged her upward, and stepped from the shower as he prompted her to enter it. “Multitask, please.” 

With the shower curtain jerked shut in her face, Hermione huffed. “Excuse me for trying to have an actual conversation, as if you were a real person. What was I thinking? Making fantasies out of bright wooden floors and … body parts not crafted from plastic.” 

“I can hear you.” 

“Good!” 

Burying her face in her hands, Hermione embraced the fail. Why not, really? Why not? His opinion of her couldn’t possibly fall any lower, so, truly, what did it matter? 

“Take off your clothes.” 

That was how showers worked. Standing, fully clothed, in a damp cubicle made no sense. Yet, she could practically feel him through the thin sheet of plastic. That it would soon be the only barrier between her naked body and a man … and she was slowly coming to identify Snape as a fully-grown, red-blooded man in every sense of the word, well, that was no barrier. No defense. She didn’t even have her wand. 

Not that she’d need it. What would he do, jerk back the curtain, point, and laugh? He’d practically pried her from his body less than half an hour ago. She knew he wouldn’t do anything. But the idea of standing so near him, naked, felt … odd. It just did. 

“Do you require further instruction?” 

“No.” 

“The hems of your tights must be wet. Start there.” 

She huffed, not sure whether to find his words insulting or amusing. In any case, he was, as usual, correct. Hermione peeled the tights off, made them presentable, and lobbed them over the side of the shower. And, if she’d aimed for Snape’s head, no one could prove it. 

“Very good.” 

Sometimes, his voice sounded … interesting. Ignoring it, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Quite the accomplishment, I know.”

“Now, take off that circus tent you call a shirt.”

Determined to ignore the quickening of her pulse, she said, “It’s comfortable.” 

“Given your writhing and whining last night, I rather think not.” 

Fingers curling beneath the hem of the shirt, she froze. “What?” 

“To satiate the potion, you gathered the lot of it, bunched, beneath your breasts.” 

She jerked. “I did not!” 

“You remained largely asleep, I believe. Instead of easing the uncomfortable bulges, you whined and thrashed until I took care of you.” 

No two parts of her body reacted the same way to those words. Overwhelmed, she said simply, “I’d remember that.” 

“I remember.” 

She swallowed with some effort. “Sounds like you had a nightmare.” 

“Your bare stomach against mine? Hardly qualifies.” The shower curtain rippled as he touched the other side. “Take off your shirt, Miss Granger.” 

“Sir….” Hearing the breathy catch in her voice, Hermione pressed a hand to her chest as it rose and fell dramatically. “What are you doing?” 

“Is it not obvious?” His fingers dragged against the shower curtain and, suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. “I am attempting to get you naked. Now, I would rather not repeat myself. Take it off.”

Hermione yanked the shirt off, threw it over the bar, and officially quit the game. Whatever he was playing at, he won, she lost. The end. Without waiting for him to narrate the event, she unhooked her bra, pretended her nipples weren’t hard and aching for attention, and dropped the plain, white bra over the bar. 

“Now your knickers.” 

She froze, realizing her horrible mistake before reaching for the offending garment. Maybe it wasn’t noticeable? 

Mortification leapt for her throat as she eased the pink material from her body. She was wet, and so were her knickers—and neither a little. Obviously, she couldn’t hand him the evidence. 

“Now, Miss Granger.” 

Maybe, if she folded them, he wouldn’t notice, or look, or … there wouldn’t be any smell, surely. Oh, yeah, no. She could not possibly hand them to him. Could she rinse them out before handing them over? Was that more or less obvious and humiliating? 

“Is there a problem? You have been breathing heavily.” 

Cornered, she snarled, “Leave me alone!” 

“You rendered that impossible, remember?” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“Sorry you cannot escape me, or sorry your knickers are wet?”

Lunging for the faucet, she turned the cold water to full blast, yelped as it vibrated through her system like a slap, and stood beneath it, blessedly robbed of thought, until she broke and added hot water. The rush of relief had her grinning and panting, but, too soon, awareness of the man standing, looming, prowling just out of sight returned with a fury. What, exactly, or even vaguely, was he trying to prove, or accomplish, or … why?


	3. A Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A late-night snack for the weekend. Enjoy! (Tell me what you think; hearing from you guys is, entirely, fueling this insane pace!) :D

Washing the toothpaste from her mouth, Hermione narrowed her eyes as Snape watched her in the mirror. His lips quirked in response. Honest to god, he looked amused. Wicked and predatory, no doubt, but genuinely amused. Even a little … maybe the potion was adapting more than she’d anticipating? That couldn’t be genuine warmth or fondness she saw in his gaze. Her overactive imagination, more likely. 

Yet, he was staring into the mirror, at her, and she was staring back, at him—and he seemed oddly relaxed about the whole damn thing. 

“We should talk.” 

She huffed. “I think you’ve said plenty.” 

“Oh?” His eyebrow arched. “How so?” 

Ignoring the rush of heat—embarrassment, obviously—she intoned, “Talk about what?” 

He beckoned and Hermione dutifully fell into pace with him. Either he’d shortened his steps or she’d lengthened hers, because moving with him was less of a hardship. Yet, as Snape sat on the edge of the bed, she hesitated and hedged, less than anxious to return to that battlefield. The end result was an awkward pause where she hovered over him, too close, before launching herself sideways, tripping, and flopping onto the bed. Thrashing toward a sitting position, the tether kept catching at her and destroying her balance. 

With bared teeth and a furious grimace, she planted herself and snapped, “I’m fine.” 

Face averted, Snape scratched the back of his neck for a moment, shook his head, and pulled her notebook from beneath the bed. “I should read this.” 

Hope broke through her terror. His palm laid atop the notebook, holding it closed—as it should be. His tone almost sounded like a taunt, or a dare. A threat. Fierce determination erased her earlier, flailing embarrassment. A bargain? A bribe? A debate? She’d do almost anything to keep his eyes from those pages. Unfortunately, she suspected he knew it. 

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione said firmly, “Don’t read it. You don’t have to.” 

“Miss Granger, be logical. If you made a mistake, our lives may be in danger. Additionally? Your insistence that the potion’s effects are impossible to prevent or divert assumes a full understanding of my abilities and my knowledge, which is sufficient only in proving your arrogance. There should be no question. I must review your work.” 

Still, his hand held the notebook closed. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the impassive man—not a twitch or trace of emotion to be seen. “If you were that worried, you wouldn’t stop to ask.” 

“I’m not asking.” 

“I know.” Nervous energy had her hands twining together. “Just, admit it. You know the potion is stable.” 

“I know no such thing.” 

“But you believe it? Given everything you’ve seen, and … you know how hard I work.” The words would change nothing, but pride had her chin rising even as desperation descended. Obviously, she shouldn’t have made the damn potion—and, oh, she’d pay—but it was an impossible challenge, and she’d mastered it. The least he could do was: “Admit it.” 

“To clarify, your illicit lust potion has tethered you to a professor twenty years your senior whom you, in turns, loathe, fear, and pity—correct? Said potion was purposefully created to function as an Imperius Curse, forcing its subjects to perform sexual acts your naivety refuses to voice aloud?” He paused to arch an inquiring brow as Hermione cringed. “And you are requesting praise?” 

She could only whisper, “It was supposed to be voluntary.” 

“If our roles were reversed, I would be lucky to escape prosecution. Acknowledge that.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“I’m nineteen, Professor. If you want to report this, I’d … please don’t, but I could understand … I deserve it, and I’d be in real trouble. If you wanted me to be.” 

“Then, you no longer believe you deserve praise for, we wistfully assume, not killing us outright?” 

Her eyes closed. “No, Sir.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Professor … just tell me what you want.” She turned her palms upward in a halfhearted, begging shrug, but met his gaze levelly. “You win, okay? Again. Always. Name your terms.” 

His hand shifted to the bed between them. Hermione’s gaze tracked his rhythmic, figure-eight touch like a wild and dangerous animal. Paranoia had her lips pressed tight, though she couldn’t say when, exactly, she’d started equating the man drawing her attention to his hands with an act of war. Already, her body was tensing, adrenaline edging closer to the surface as his fingers oh-so casually caressed fabric. 

“If I indulge you, for now, you will answer my questions with brutal, immediate honesty. Agreed?”

She’d expected more. It was enough. “Yes, Professor.” 

“Formulating a plan with imperfect, incomplete information is a further hardship I have chosen to undertake as a gift to you. You understand?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“You are grateful?” 

His gliding fingertips transitioned to a thrumming metronome for her heart. She licked her lips, nervous and unsure, but whispered, “I am. Thank you.” 

He ducked his head in a slight bow, but she registered only the wicked flash of his eyes from beneath his lashes. “Come Monday, will I be capable of teaching?” 

Hermione did the math. He’d caught her after midnight, so Saturday, today, was day one, then Sunday, then … her head shook, but she had to swallow twice before the simplest of words would form. “No.” 

“Tuesday?” 

A grimace. “I … no.” 

“Wed—”

“Or Thursday or Friday. No.”

His fingers thrummed. “Would you qualify today as the least taxing of the seven?”

The day had been plenty eventful, in her opinion, but the sarcastic barb on the tip of her tongue died as she contemplated what awaited them. Finally, she sighed. “It’s barely started. The tether is the potion’s foundation. We’ll be rewarded with more leeway, or punished with less, but it won’t go away. Everything else builds on it.” 

She felt beaten and badgered already. Looking into Snape’s eyes, she wordlessly begged him for mercy. Something must have been lost in the translation. 

“Will you require a contraceptive potion?” 

She recoiled, but practically dragged herself upright with both hands, and, however painfully, feigned a nonchalance she didn’t begin to feel. “That would be helpful. Thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” 

“Entirely.” 

She heard the word after she’d said it. The implied barb, she understood; why she’d baited him—what she’d hoped to achieve—she had no idea. Though, if she were brutally honest, she felt marginally more powerful as his eyes narrowed. A second after that, she cringed back and braced herself for retribution. 

“Time will tell.” His hand slid an inch closer … for no good reason that she could determine. It wasn’t touching her—wasn’t even close enough to object to; but lingered far too near all the same. As she frowned down at it, he asked, “How many lovers have you had?” 

She jerked upright, molars snapping together. 

“None?” 

Excuses and justifications leapt to the forefront of her mind. But hell if she owed the smug bastard a word of explanation. Instead, she notched her chin into the air and glared. 

“Were you abstaining purposefully?”

The past tense landed like a rock in her gut, but, with a sigh, she shook her head. When he raised his chin in a silent demand, she cleared her throat and said, “No. Sir.” 

“Would you like to confess everything to McGonagall? Or would you prefer we isolate ourselves to my home for the week? If we left today, only the tether would require an explanation.” He shrugged as if truly unconcerned. “Your choice.” 

As his words sank in, the sensation of being cornered and poked with a sharp stick crackled and evaporated into its exact opposite. The release of anxiety surged through and from her as emotion burned behind her eyes. Until that exact moment, she hadn’t truly admitted to herself how much terror and shame was associated not with what would happen—though, there was plenty of that—but with everyone knowing. 

Without much thought, her hand dropped to land atop his for an instant, then another, but no more. Twining her hands together, she looked to his face and said, “Can we leave? Please?” 

~~~ 

In the end, she’d barely been required to speak. Snape had snarled and unleashed a tirade of venom, McGonagall pinching the bridge of her nose through the onslaught, and Hermione had had only to mutter a confirmation and an apology as Snape stormed from the room—the tether giving her no choice but to stumble behind him. Three steps from McGonagall’s office, both his anger and gait had tempered. The big faker … and, seriously, how often did he do that? 

Fifteen minutes later, she’d stood in an overgrown wildflower garden outside a modest stone cottage. Never, in a thousand years, would she have matched the man with the house, but he seemed to dismiss some powerful wards before the door would open, and he seemed to know where things were inside, so … it seemed like his house. Here, too, the floors gleamed a radiant amber. New rooms and furniture seemed to grow out of old, poorly-built and heavily-scarred structures and furniture. A mishmash of oddities, comfort, and elegance. Books, notes, and specimen containers were stowed in random nooks and crannies, but never gave way to disarray. 

She could make sense of most of it. Not so with the colors. Similar to the bedspread, his home displayed a puzzling variety of earth tones. Some were cool or rich, which made sense to her, but others were warm and saturated. The drapes didn’t properly match the chair cushions, which didn’t properly match the rugs. When they walked into a sitting room, the peculiar combinations had her scratching her head. It wasn’t random or outlandish—there was a sense of purpose—but it was beyond her understanding.

“Does it pass inspection?” 

His voice was at her ear, a whisper, and his hand, on her shoulder, restrained her when Hermione would have spun. 

“Professor?” 

“The tether has me close.” 

Right. Every three hours. Not quite what she’d imagined. She’d pictured vague shapes, one with red hair and the other with a scar, laughing and hurriedly stripping off clothes. The walking scar would have tripped and fell, the redhead pulled down after, and they’d have landed in a tangle, their grins bright as they shuffled and shifted, touched and played—all while whispering words of love and worship. Instead, Hermione stood stiff, awkward, and sad. 

Her feet, suddenly, were not beneath her. Hermione yelped. As her hands sought purchase, she went from the sensation of falling, to blinking at the ceiling, to grasping at Snape’s shoulders, and then she sat, straddling his lap, in a large, emerald-green, high-backed chair. Mouth agape, she met his gaze before hurriedly turning away. 

“Professor….” 

“Sir. Or Snape. Severus. Master, if you like.” 

A huff of laughter escaped. “Master?” 

His hand snaked between their bodies. Hermione gasped in surprise, her back arching away from him as his deft fingers freed the buttons of his shirt, starting at the bottom, one after the other. As she stared, he asked, “Yes?” 

“Um, yes?” Whispering her approval unsettled her, so she shook her head and elaborated. “Skin is, you know, necessary. So … adequate job of meeting the requirements.”

As she grimaced at the awkward, he chuckled. “While I am honored my body can so fluster and distract you, I was responding to your call of ‘Master.’” 

“Obviously.” Her haughty rejoinder made zero sense, but she blinked the matter from existence. “I’m so not … why … Profe … Sir! You are joking, right?” 

The last button popped free and his long fingers grazed downward, brushing the fabric toward his sides and baring the expanse of his chest. With his allegations of her interest still ringing in her ears, Hermione jerked her gaze toward the ceiling. Because, no. The human eye tracked movement. Nothing more! 

“I am the Potions Master.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a lot of things. Should I turn them all into a title?” 

And, as she celebrated her cleverness, his hand slid up her spine. She started to rock forward, away from his touch, but he’d sat up straight and there was suddenly, definitely, nowhere to go. As his palm curled around the nape of her neck and a gasp escaped her lips, his cheek slid against hers. The words he whispered slid, hot and invasive, against her ear. 

“Shall we compare barbed tongues, Miss Granger? I will indulge you in a lashing, if you keep begging.” 

Heat sparked across her body. She fought to jerk away, but his hand tightened at the back of her neck. Adrenaline surging, one hand sought purchase, nails first, at his shoulder as the other dug into the forearm attached to the hand restraining her. Yet, as she instinctively struggled to escape, his quaking chest only pressed closer. 

Amusement thick in his voice, he asked, “What are you hoping to accomplish?” 

His hand released her neck, slid down her back, and curled gently, as if that was in any way better, around her hip. And, still, her attempts to jerk her chest away accomplished nothing beyond forcing her spread legs more forcefully against him. Not thinking so much as reacting, she huffed and growled. At the small of her back, his long fingers dragged and captured the material of her shirt in his fist. Hermione froze. 

“Skin against skin, remember? Or, would you rather remain in my lap indefinitely?” 

What was she doing? Good holy damn … had she lost her mind? Writhing on top of him, as if that was helpful, as if she didn’t understand the potion requirements she’d so painstakingly created? The vague ache in her belly kept mortification from overtaking her entirely, but frustration was easy enough to summon. Releasing her punishing grip on the bastard, Hermione reached for the sides of her shirt. Snape helped by adjusting his grip and sliding his palm up the length of her back. 

“You could take it off.” 

“You could stop trying to….”

“Yes? Tell me, Miss Granger, what am I trying?”

They’d pushed the tether’s schedule to the point of punishment, her face held to the side of his neck as his lips continued to hover at her ear. So, for all they were touching almost everywhere, she couldn’t see his face. It was thrilling and freeing in a way she knew wasn’t real—couldn’t possibly last—but she leaned into it anyway. 

“You’re being provocative, Sir.” 

“Elaborate.” 

She almost sank her teeth into his neck. Managed to restrained herself—just. “No.” 

“Then I cannot be sure what you mean.” 

Expression pained, she sat there, fingers holding her shirt to the sides of her bra as their stomachs pressed and moved together. Then, he released the fabric to slid his open palm up and down her bare back, his fingers venturing beneath her bra as her back arched. It, honestly, felt divine. His intentions might be wicked and annoying, but warm pleasure traced the path of his touch. And, somehow, he’d worn her out just enough and the touch remained just innocent enough, that she allowed it without comment, eyes drifting closed, for the better part of a minute. 

“You should be furious and disgusted—”

“Your opinion of yourself needs rectified.” 

“Instead, you’ve been trying to excite me.” 

His nails dragged down her back. She gasped. And, when her arched back forced her breasts more firmly against his chest, gasped again. 

Against her ear, he whispered, “Trying or succeeding?” 

“Professor….” 

“Sir,” he corrected. “Call me ‘Sir.’ For now.” 

When his fingers went back to their soothing slide, Hermione, with a soft sigh, allowed her body to go pliant. Still, her mind was a riot. 

“Even assuming you’re not physically appalled by me, the potion is a violation. After everything you’ve been through—”

“Enough of that.” 

A sob entered her voice as she demanded, “Why aren’t you fighting this? You should hate me.” 

Too damn fast, his fingers flicked the clasp of her bra open. And, as his palm spread, uninhibited across her back, and Hermione gasped with shock, he said, “Like you, Miss Granger, I have nothing better to do.”


	4. The Wicked, Clever Bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and offering motivation. This one fought me, but I made it happen for you guys. Enjoy!

Biting back a moan, Hermione savored her last bite of stuffed chicken before dutifully chewing and swallowing. When her shy glance lifted to Snape, only to find him watching, her pulse quickened. She looked away. Staring down at the remnants of the meal they’d spent a—surprisingly pleasant—evening making, she huffed a laugh and shook her head. Fucking Snape. 

Before their late dinner, they’d spent an even more amicable day in his gardens. After the bra indecent—which wasn’t much of an incident, in the long run, because he’d clasped the thing as quickly and effortlessly as he’d unclasped it—she’d followed him into the garden with an appropriate degree of suspicion. Only, he’d started naming the plants and their properties, offering tips, and sharing stories, and, before long, she’d been hanging on his every word. She’d learned a lot … a deeply-pleasing amount, actually. When he wanted to be, he was an excellent teacher … and brilliant. Thinking about it, she felt the tiniest bit giddy. 

Still, she’d kept the potion’s schedule at the back of her mind. He wouldn’t catch her unaware and dictate the specifics of those five minutes again. Lesson learned on that front! Then, after all her planning and worrying, he’d laid, relaxed and docile, in the grass, arms raised and crossed behind his head, as five minutes passed in lazy, sun-drenched peace. Not once, but three times. The second time, she’d found her idle fingers tracing patterns across the line of his clavicle. On venture three, her tongue had darted out—accidentally!—to taste the salt of his earthy scent, her nose dragging against his skin. On accident. The wicked, clever bastard. 

Now, she found her ankle jiggling beneath the table as her heart pitter-pattered away, her body uncomfortably alert and focused on his every move. Because, she knew. She understood. How she’d explain it, she wasn’t sure. How he could put her so at ease, making her almost … like him, but, at the same time, heighten her awareness of the lethal, all-consuming predator lurking, prowling, just beneath his facade of civility … it escaped logic, but, down deep, where ancient instincts whispered, she recognized a cunning, dangerous animal when it sat, patient and smiling, before her.

“Your scowl is ferocious.” 

Oh, she just bet. Hermione forced herself to look at him steadily, as if doing so was in no way a problem. Chin up, she forced a smile and said, “Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

She felt slow heat filling her cheeks as her chest rose and fell more quickly. Attempting to control it only made her more self-conscious of her flustered embarrassment and the awkward, fidgeting, inexplicable tension curling through her body, her gaze locked with his in challenge when she’d been aiming for poised civility. She hid the gasp as best she could, the desperate bid for air silent and taken entirely through her nose, but her chest expanded and rose until she imagined her breasts the center of all attention. As if they were begging for his hands. 

Gaze narrowing in a scowl, she averted her eyes, said nothing, and popped the last cherry tomato into her mouth. She’d tried; it had to count for something. 

“Thinking, perhaps, of the potion’s demands? We have ten minutes.” 

Abandoning all subtlety, Hermione physically shook the nervous energy from her body and squared her shoulders. Deep breath in, and out, and speak. “I wasn’t.” 

“You are now?” 

The low, silky growl of his voice forced her eyes closed for an instant—no longer. How had she never noticed…. “Of course.” 

He nodded. “You still want on top?” 

A wicked image popped into her mind. She blinked. “Yep.” 

“My bed is upstairs.” 

“No.” Not even an option. “Not there.” 

“We will be sleeping there, you realize?” 

Would she wake up tangled against his larger body, clinging to him? Again? She shook her head and aimed an exasperated look his way. “Later, then. Not now.” 

“Why the glare, Miss Granger?” His lips quirked as his head tilted to the side. Eyes going wide, Hermione pressed a hand to her overheated chest. She recognized the gesture, the posture—like a cobra rearing to strike. “Have I not obliged your every desire?” 

“Sir … please.” 

“If you need something I have yet to give you, simply ask.” His hand, palm down, fingers splayed, slid across the table. Those long fingers sliding down his water glass was an indecent caress before his hand closed. “I find myself impatient to see you satisfied.” 

Deep and low, her belly clenched. Hermione slammed her fist against the table, then blinked, confused and startled by the noise and clattering of dishes. Still. She thrust one damning finger toward him and said, “You, stop.” 

To her eternal surprise, he chuckled and leaned back in his chair, looking uncharacteristically relaxed and please with himself. “Very well. If not the bed, where? Either the chair or couch would suit me.” 

She snarled. “Fuck that chair.” 

“Language, Miss Granger. When you speak crudely, you invite others to speak to you similarly.” He smirked. “For example—”

Her hands waved. “Still no!”

“And now you give me orders? Tell me, in your mind, what have you done to earn that right?” 

Twenty seconds later, she found herself staring at him, her hands steepled over her mouth and nose as she hid everything but her eyes. She would have hid those, too, if she dared. Self-preservation demanded she keep both eyes on the beast. 

“No? You can think of no reason I am beholden to you? After you stole from me, stripped my free will, took my body hostage, and were welcomed into my home to preserve your dignity? Do I not owe you immediate and unquestioning obedience?” 

Her expression crumpled as conflicting emotions and impulses hit her. On the one hand—

“Speak! Watching thoughts flash across your guileless face conveys nothing but an innocent assumption I will not pluck them from your mind.” 

He sounded like the bastard bat of the dungeons, but his lips quirked and his eyes seemed to shine with some smirking, predatory intent. Teeth clenched, Hermione pointed an accusing finger at him for long seconds before she spoke.

“Fine. You want to hear what I’m thinking?” Still, she ran a hand through her hair, nervous and hesitant. Then, with a shrug, she charged, “You’re manipulating me. Now, with my guilt, and all day. And … you’re better at it than I am. Really, Professor, Sir, I’m impressed, and I can’t stop you, but I’m not stupid. I know you’re trying to control me.” 

His eyebrows rose slowly. “Trying or succeeding?” 

As her back flexed beneath the remembered drag of his nails, she sighed. “What do you want?” 

He gestured at her lazily. “This will suffice.” 

Beneath his sweeping gaze, her nipples pebbled and ached. “What do you mean?” 

“First you bluster, then you bully, then you go still and pliant. Your chest still heaves, but, now, the rise is steady and slow, like a meditation. Your gaze is no longer erratic and shy, but steady and full of desperate, yearning trust.”

Not enjoying the description, she sat back with a frown. “You want me depressed and beaten down?” 

“Now you pout.” He smiled, expression oddly fond. “I want you honest. I acknowledge your innocence and your overactive mind tempting you to distraction and anxiety, but you must acknowledge the truth. Not for me. For you.” 

When he fell silent, she raised a brow and waited. Finally, she prompted, “And that is?” 

“You anticipate the potion’s control. You yearn to be stripped of the responsibility of your cravings and pleasure. Everything you thrash against so vehemently, from my hand at your neck to the weight of my body pressed against you, is what you deny yourself the freedom to want, but, in truth, need.” 

Even as her heart pounded, Hermione shook her head. “You’re wrong.” 

“You think so?” 

As his eyebrow arched, Hermione whined. “Please. Enough.” 

“You would like to blame the potion for this exchange, no? Perhaps an adaptation can explain my focus? Your reaction?” He dragged his fingers against his mouth. Purposeful or innocent, Hermione couldn’t say, but anxiety bloomed as indecision left her unsure whether to stare at his lips or hands. “Or, can you take responsibility for sitting before me, untouched, breathing as if the perfect combination of words could send you shuddering and moaning into an orgasm?”

She wanted to snarl and fight, if only to prove a point, but all she could do was blink slowly and lick her lips. Finally, with a shake of her head that accomplished very little, she managed to ask, “What am I supposed to say to that?” 

“Try the truth. Not for me. For you.” 

“For you,” she bit out. “This is all for you. I’m fine.” 

“It is a coincidence, then, that you chose to commit your attention to a sex potion?”

She swallowed heavily. “Like you’re doing any better. I’ve seen you moping!” 

One of his shoulders rose and fell slowly. “I clung to existence for a purpose. That purpose has now been fulfilled. You, on the other hand, are young, beautiful, and extremely gifted. We are not in the same position, so do not think to use my listlessness as an excuse to avoid your life.” 

His matter-of-fact defeatism hurt her heart. Of course it did; she wasn’t a total, self-absorbed bitch. Also, though? He’d called her beautiful. And gifted! Beautiful. It was such a distraction, she lost the train of their argument and smiled. When she felt the first tug of the tether, her chuckle was laced with exhaustion. “I’ll give you the bed if you stop talking.” 

“Not good enough. You agree to the couch, I will speak not a word for five minutes.” 

It was a trick. A trap. Obviously. Feeling overwhelmed and brazen, she stood with a shrug. “Why not? Have your way.” 

“I plan to.” 

Her glare was, frankly, inefficient. “Quiet. Starting now.” 

Snape raised his brows. Smirked. And, as they walked toward the living room, his dutiful silence felt like a triumph. Then, she paused before the couch, eyes narrowed as she absorbed how very narrow it was. Still quiet, Snape walked around her, threw himself onto the long, thin couch in a sprawl, and grinned as the tether forced her to take a step closer. 

“Sorry. No,” she announced. 

Meeting her gaze, he lifted one arm to the couch’s back, curled his fingers around the edge, and tightened his grip. Hermione’s hands went to her hips. “Oh, come on! Don’t do this.” 

The arm not holding the couch—assuring the tether pulled her to him rather than the alternative—looped over his eyes and stayed there. Hermione glared. Without speaking, there were few ways he could more emphatically state his unwillingness to move. The tether jerked her forward another half step. 

“You remember how terrifying my knees are, right?” 

When he refused to react, she sighed. Probably didn’t take a man of his intelligence to realize she wouldn’t purposefully hurt him … especially when she couldn’t run and hide afterward. The tether yanked. She knew better than to anger the bond and suffer a punishment. She’d designed the damn thing, after all. Still … there was, seriously, no room. She’d have to lie atop him, pressed tight, thighs to chest and everywhere else and in between. 

“If you get on the floor, I’ll take off my shirt.” As his arm fell away from his eyes, she clarified. “Just my shirt. Not my bra.” 

He made a very obvious, very obnoxious show of considering her offer, then shook his head. Still, his gaze was locked on hers. Last minute negotiations. 

She roared her frustration as he licked his lips. “Shirt off and … I guess … you can be on top. But your hips go one way and mine go the other. You get me?” 

She dug her heels in as the tether dragged her forward. When he refused to respond beyond a smirk, she snarled, “Snape! Come on! Please? What? Should I beg? Would that make you ever so obliging?” 

Lips parting on a silent laugh, he swung himself up into a sitting position and nodded, once, slowly. 

“Please.” The begging had been her idea; she remembered saying the words—recently. All the same, pride clawed at her throat. “Please, Sir. Will you do me a favor and lie on top of my scantily-clad body? I’m so pathetic I have to beg for that, so you’d be doing me a huge—”

His hands landed on her hips, startling her quiet with a soft gasp. When she glanced down into his face, his expression was serious, gaze unblinking and meaningful—attempting to communicate in some language she didn’t understand. Still, her prideful sarcasm crashed into fidgeting vulnerability in an instant. When his hands slid upward, along her sides, and carried her shirt with it, Hermione closed her eyes and endured the humiliation. 

Her virgin-white bra covered every hint of a curve, she knew. She wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise. But, suddenly, she wasn’t sure it helped. Her stomach could be more shapely, and her chest bigger, and several of her freckles were nearly large enough to be called moles, and—

Snape dragged his mouth across her belly, an inch from the waist of her jeans. She twitched, a soft whimper escaping without her permission. When her frantic hand landed in his hair, dug in, and gripped, she had every intention of dragging him away. Yet, as his tongue flicked against her skin and her knees quivered, she could only cling to him for stability. His tongue dragged up the length of her stomach in one long, profane tease. 

An instant later, she teetered, free and falling, in his arms. His arm cushioned her head’s descent, but her back hit the floor with just enough of smack to vibrate through her body, the surprise setting her blood on fire and stealing her breath. Gaze heavy and lidded, she felt her legs falling open in welcome even as he honored her earlier words. 

His cheek rested between her breasts. Yet, even as the world slowed and echoed with vibrations of hunger, her chest heaving like mad, she lifted her head and frowned down at what she saw. Given his taller frame and her mandate of no hip contact, only his upper chest rested against her. It was, apparently, enough for the tether. 

Eyes shut, she tried to ignore the anxious instincts demanding more. Slowly, as she fidgeted beneath him, Hermione admitted his earlier words might carry some truth. She wished the tether would drag him closer. She wished he’d nuzzle closer to her hard nipple and force her to accept the pleasure she desperately wanted. Her lips remained pressed tight, silent and frowning. 

His arm fell across her stomach, elbow at her far hip as his fingers curled beneath her rib cage. She curled her body against the confinement, surprised by the satisfaction she took from the weight of him. Her fingertips went to the nape of his neck and twirled there, offering him reward and encouragement in one. 

She whispered, “You can talk if you want to.” 

In response, he tightened his arm but said nothing. Hermione nodded. Time to let it go. She wouldn’t embarrass herself by saying more. It was the last integration of the skin-to-skin tether, anyway. She smirked. In another three hours … damn it! She was anxious for the potion to deliver pleasure to her, just as he’d said. What kind of monster did that make her? 

If only he’d say something. Distract her. Body bouncing, she suffered through the drag of a minute. Her lips fell open on a gasp as her restless thighs slid together. 

“You never asked what happens next. It’s a progression.” 

Her free hand curled against his shoulder, a shudder wracking her body. Bizarrely—truly beyond her ability to explain—she wanted his weight, all of it, against her. She’d wrap her arms and legs around the man and cling. Nothing more, of course. Just that. She only wanted that. Desperately. 

“There are two parts.” She’d stilled her caressing fingertips earlier, feeling pathetic and bared. Now, they dug into his hair and clenched. “They’re indecent.” 

A contented hum came from the base of his throat. Hermione growled in response. Rather than distract her, the hum served only to vibrate against her breasts and aggravate her expansive, untouched lust. She felt frustrated to tears or violence. The bastard! He’d done it on purpose, of course. Everything was intentional with him. He’d teased her body to vibrating desperation, her mind forgetting itself as her body made stupid, puerile demands, and then he’d abandoned her to ugly emotions and hateful thoughts. He was probably still waiting for her to beg. 

“It should humiliate me, so you’ll like that. All about truth. Empathy.” She caught herself curling her shoulders, subconsciously trying to force him against her nipple, and slammed her shoulders against the floor. “Not all emotions. Just pleasure. We can feel each other’s pleasure.” 

Her hand dragged down his neck and slid between his shoulder blades. Tucking her elbow in, she tightened the embrace and turned it into a one-armed hug. She pretended not to notice, pretended it meant nothing, but it both lessened and heightened her ache for him. 

“That’s the innocent part,” she whispered. “Every three hours, we have to experience pleasure. Not together. Well, I’ll feel your pleasure and you’ll feel mine, so together is relative, but you … touching isn’t mandated. Just orgasms. Masturbation, obviously. I’m talking about … every three hours.” 

Her back rolled in an uncontrollable arch as her body shuddered taut. After gnawing on her lip for torturous moments, she admitted, “You’re right, you know. Part of me wishes it was working now. Then I’d know what you were feeling, if you’re feeling anything. Probably taking a nap.” 

His chest rumbled against her. “Tether’s over.” 

Her arm tightened. She fought back the desire to lift the other and cling. Instead, with a sigh she liked to pretend was inaudible, Hermione made her arms fall limply to her side and released him. “Good. All done.” 

“No.” 

Hope surged. “No?” 

“In three hours, the focus will shift to nonverbal communication. As it stands, your body communicates its desires with little subtlety. So, before you can excuse and justify your behavior, you will accept what you, not the potion, craves, and you will ask for it.”

“Sir….” 

“Now, Miss Granger.” 

She felt like yanking out his hair. “Why are you so determined to watch me embarrass myself?” 

His nose slid against the curve of her breast. “Why are your desires an embarrassment to you?” 

She huffed. “I’m tired of talking about this.” 

“Because you are an adult woman with sexual needs, or because you crave a dominant man?” 

She stirred beneath him, starting to resent the same weight she’d so wanted to increase. “I never said I wanted a dominant man. You said that.” 

His head raised enough for his dark gaze to meet hers. “You are lying to me, I hope, and not yourself?” 

“You, Sir, with all due respect—”

“Which is apparently very little.” 

“… are painfully annoying.” 

“The only one forestalling your pleasure and causing you aggravation, Miss Granger, is you. Your pride. You are always offered an efficient resolution, and you always demand punishment and pain instead. Foreseeable, perhaps, but your choice completely.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. 

“And for no reason. You needn’t hide from me. I already know.” 

She didn’t know. What, exactly, he was talking about—she didn’t know. Still, she demanded, “Then why do I have to say it?” 

“Because, Miss Granger, you might limp out of this experience with shattered boundaries and recognize yourself even less than you seem to now. In my experience, submitting freely is, whenever possible and across various activities and circumstances, preferable to being forcibly stripped of the freedom of choice.” His hand slid across her belly in a slow caress, as if attempting to take the sting from so many ugly words. It didn’t work. “Emotional vulnerability is challenging for you, I understand, but I need you to trust me.” 

Through bared teeth, she demanded, “Why would I do that?” 

His soothing fingers curled into claws before falling lax again. “Should any aspect of our time together become public, regardless of where the fault lies, my reputation and career will suffer irreversible damage. Does that not assure you of privacy? Power?” 

Her fingers caught at the back of his head and dug in there, scratching or massaging—hurting or praising—she didn’t know. “Still.” 

“Is it not enough that, since this began, I have done nothing but embrace and flame your desires? What further proof do you need of my acceptance?” 

She cringed back in embarrassment. “You’re just … making all these assumptions about me, and announcing them like they’re facts. Sorry. Maybe I’m not great at saying what I think—”

He scoffed at that. 

“Or want, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean what you think it does. Or … I don’t know what it means, but I’m not letting you define me. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I definitely do not know what you are talking about! Okay? Sorry!” 

“Miss Granger, you were given one, simple task. Ask for what you want, and you will have it.” 

“I don’t want anything!” 

“Very well.” He levered himself to his knees, swayed forward, and pressed a kiss to her jawline before standing. “There are other ways.”


	5. Since You Asked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite chapter so far. Thank you for all the encouragement and motivation. Sometimes, I need a push. Enjoy!

Not happy. From moment to moment, it was the only constant to her mood: not happy. For hours, they’d been reading. After the “event”—and a silent, mortifying trip to the bathroom where she’d needed her wand to preserve the utility of her knickers—Snape had led her back to the hated living room, set them before the bookcases, and told her to choose. Hours later, he’d dragged them to the bathroom, the kitchen for water, back to the bookshelf for a second book—a necessity for him, not her—and back to the damn couch. 

She hated the couch. Hated it! The entire time she’d been sitting atop it, the ugly, misshapen monstrosity had been giving her nothing but attitude. It shouted that, had she indulged Snape’s plan and climbed on top of him … nothing bad would have happen. Taking off her shirt? Her idea. Getting him on top of her? Her idea! He’d forced none of it. 

Hell, she would like to blame him for stirring her desire to the point of desperation—she had blamed him—but, was that fair? He’d pointedly played the gentleman all afternoon and evening, and she’d sat at the dinner table vibrating with excited lust. Could she blame him for the underlying tension? Could she blame the potion? She wanted to. The Snape in her mind scoffed and mocked her—called her a liar. 

No. It had to be the potion. Maybe it wasn’t forcing the emotions, but it had triggered her razor-sharp awareness. Knowing the intimacy demanded of them, knowing … it all, how could she not look at him and cringe with embarrassment? How could she not look at him and see sex? The reactions of her confused body, then, she’d accept as her responsibility—indirectly and totally caused by the potion. But he wasn’t helping! 

He’d licked her stomach! That was…. Standing before him, wracked with ugly insecurities, hadn’t she all but begged for comfort? If he hadn’t flamed her desire, would she have spent the five minutes miserable and self-conscious? Would she have preferred that? Was it his fault her stupid body had escalated the touch so out of proportion? 

Thinking about the uncomfortable, twisted “event” of it all, now that time had passed, left her resentful, and embarrassed, and angry, but, mostly, confused. At the time, she’d felt belittled, badgered, and backed into a corner. Now … what, exactly, had she fought so forcefully to protect? Or deny? Or … if she’d said, “I want to feel more of your weight,” would he have obliged her? Was that all she’d had to say? 

Could she say it now? 

Gaze narrowing, she ducked her head and sent a subtle glare his way. Why should she? Because he wanted her to? Soon, the potion would … damn it! Maybe, she should say the words because they were true. Was that his point? That she had desires? That, every once in a while, she craved not only touch, but familiarity? Intimacy? That she felt so alone she wanted to scream, but knew no one could help, or would care, and she’d only draw annoyed glares for causing a fuss? That she wanted to cling to his shredded, twisted strength because she feared a strong wind would rend her into a million pieces and scatter her in every direction? 

Was that what he wanted to hear? With a huff, her head drooped. She doubted it. No one wanted to hear those truths. He wanted permission to fuck her. He wanted to know he could quicken her breath, and make her wet, and then he could enjoy the potion—his charge against her—without guilt. That’s what he wanted. Which, could she blame him? She’d caused all this. Could she not give him peace of mind? 

Not happy. Desperately not happy. 

Hermione glanced down at the open book resting on her lap. She’d chosen one at random. It was painfully dry, and he hadn’t corrected her or offered a better selection. Honestly, it felt less like a pleasant evening reading—which, hello, she adored—and more like being sent to the corner for silent, think-about-what-you’ve-done time. She sighed. Again. 

Worse? Unless her timing was off, the potion would be changing gears soon. The empathy of pleasure and mandatory orgasms. Not long ago, she’d anticipated the change with a gleeful, wicked lust. Now … everything was a mess. Shoulders drooping further, head bowed, she sighed. She had to fix this. 

Deep breath in, out, and … a whine. Attempt two. Deep breath in, out, and, lips parted, speak! 

“You turn me on.” The words sounded ugly and jarring in the silence, so she growled. “Okay? Are you happy now?” 

He turned, slowly, to look at her. “Is that the best you can do?” 

Her chest seized with anxiety, but the words weren’t censor. They were round and warm, without judgment, and posed like a genuine question. Was that the best she could do? 

She didn’t know what he meant, exactly, but knew she could do better. So, she huffed a whine and asked, “What should I say?” 

“The truth, Miss Granger.” 

“The truth is, I can’t think in a straight line. So, you want a wild ramble of my insecurities … you don’t, by the way, but give me a topic.” Dragging a hand down her face, she growled and then sat up straighter. “I’m not trying to be—”

“What did you want?” 

This again? Frustration and annoyance flared and she sent a damning glare his way. She stayed silent so long she expected him to turn back to his book, but he never did. Finally, gaze averted—looking at him was not an option—she said, “I wanted more of your weight.” 

“You wanted me between your thighs?” 

“Not … I guess. Yes. But with my clothes on.” 

He hummed. “Of course.” 

The words didn’t sound mocking, but she knew they were. Knew too, she’d probably lied, but refused to think on it any further. “Okay? Will you stop punishing me?”

He turned to her more fully. “Do you feel punished?” 

“Yes!” 

His head quirked to the side. “What was your punishment?”

“You’ve been ignoring me for hours.” 

“Being left alone with your thoughts is a punishment?” 

She squirmed, uncomfortable with his accusation and suspicious of the danger she sensed in his words. “Not usually. Now? Yes.”

“Because you are forced to confront thoughts you would rather not, or because your thoughts are cruel to you?” 

Hermione would have given anything to stand and pace, but she remained trapped and helpless. Instead, she rolled her shoulders and said, “Both, I guess. Now, I think that’s enough truth.” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

One of his brows arched. “No.”

She ached to fight him, but couldn’t stand more silence. And, even if she could, he could haul her notebook from wherever he’d hidden it and threaten her with that. So, even as frustrated tears stung the back of her eyes, she asked, “What else?”

“Do you anticipate the progression of the potion?” 

She huffed. “Do I want you to,” she made an erratic, swinging gesture with her hand and finished, “me? That’s what you want to hear. I say I want that and everything gets easier for you.” 

Snape smirked. “If it were your desire, should it not make the situation more pleasant for you, also?” 

“Stop twisting my words.” 

“Or is admitting your desire more difficult and less titillating than being taken?”

“Sir….” She groaned. Not again. Not this again. 

“Do you require further proof of your desire?” The rumble of his voice was laced with disapproval, and Hermione fidgeted and licked her lips. “Your nipples are hard. Touch them. Or shall I?” 

Her chest arched in offering. Mortified, she crossed her arms over the evidence. 

“I have watched you clench and rub your thighs together. Do it now. With so little provocation, I would wager you are already slippery, wet, and ready for me. Are you not? Is that not your desire? Are you too much a coward to speak a truth we both know?” 

She, honestly, wanted to. It was to a point now where she felt ridiculous—inadequate in some way. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t admit her desire? What would he do? Laugh at her? Tell her he still saw her buck teeth and frizzy hair? No. Of course not. He wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t say his provocative words and touches were only making the trial of the potion less jarring. He wouldn’t say he’d fuck her because he had to, because any hole would do, but he thought of her as nothing but a failure, a burden, and a creature to pity. 

“What about you? Professor? You want to … have sex with me?” She shrugged the discomfort away and charged ahead. “Go ahead. Say it out loud. It’s so bloody important, right? How could we function without saying everything out loud and making this as mortifying and painful as humanly possible, right? So, do it! Just—” 

“Are your hysterics attempting to make a point, or are you truly asking?” 

She wanted to hear the words desperately. In truth, she hadn’t realized how much until that very moment. She needed the words so much, she’d never ask for them. So, feeling like she wanted to cry, Hermione shook her head, averted her gaze, and grumbled, “Just forget it. My body wants you. I said that already.” 

He frowned. “I have aroused you?” 

“You know that!” 

“And you anticipate the progression of the potion, because you crave more pleasure and release?” 

She slapped a hand over her eyes. Frustration, sadness, and anger had mixed and risen until she feared cathartic tears were a necessity, but she fought them back and said, “Yes. Sir. I want that.” 

“You are not a victim?” 

“I did this.” She bit at her cheek, tossed her head, and finally ground out, “I can’t call myself a victim, can I?” 

“You can always choose to be a victim, Miss Granger. Would you choose that now?” 

Why was he asking now, when she wanted to cry? “I want to be strong. But….” 

“But?” 

The words hovered in her mind, almost too painful and biting to speak aloud. If he made her cry, she’d die of humiliation. “I feel strong when I’m in control. But the potion steals my control, and you want what’s left, so….” Emotion surged, but she gritted her teeth until it faded. “I don’t feel strong. Sorry.” 

“Miss Granger—”

After a full-body cringe, she asked, “Can that be enough? Please? I did my best.” 

A soft thud of sound had her glancing sideways. As his thighs spread, she saw the pillow on the floor between his feet. “Come here.” 

She stood. Propriety, or guilt, or embarrassment—something—tried to shame her, but she felt ripped open and desperate, and she wanted closer to him. So, not happy but eager, she moved to hover above him, then frowned. After a moment of belly-clenching debate, she licked her lips and sank to her knees. Heart pounding, she looked up at him, feeling vulnerable as her lashes fluttered—as if she yearned to close them and hide. 

Then, his hand cupped her cheek. That unwelcome shame nagged as she turned into his touch, her expression pained as his thumb caressed beneath the line of her jaw. 

“Beautiful.” His growl of praise had self-consciousness creasing her forehead. “Now, turn around and make yourself comfortable. This is your reward, not mine.” 

His touch dragged, more insistent, and then fell away. Oh. He’d intended for her to sit on the pillow. Instead, she’d knelt between his thighs, assuming….

Hermione couldn’t turn around quickly enough. Could she not go five minutes without—

His hand curled into and around the hair at her nape, tightening as he forced her chin to the side. Electricity sparked through her veins as her mouth fell open in shock. “Stop. Stop swallowing every instinct and punishing yourself for what little authenticity you dare brave. Understand? You keep punishing yourself for imagined failures, I will educate you on the nature of punishment.” 

He forced her gaze forward with a, slightly, more gentle tug, and then the grip was gone. Instead, as her mouth continued to gape, his hands slid against her shoulders and, gently, his fingertips curled, probed, and dragged against her tight muscles. For a solid minute, she did nothing but stare straight ahead, eyes darting from side to side, as her mind refused to work and her gaping mouth refused to close. Then, his fingers slid through her hair, against her scalp, and began a massage that rendered her entire world decidedly more simple. And, as his touch lingered, and lingered some more, as if he were content to offer her unhurried, simple pleasure until she purred with it, Hermione slowly, by degrees, went boneless and thoughtless beneath him. 

A soft moan escaped. She blinked at the sound and mumbled, “You’re good at that.”

“You deserved pleasure for your honesty.” His forehead dropped to the crown of her head and she lifted her chin to heighten the pressure. “For trusting me.” 

She meant to huff or scoff; it came out as a pleased hum. And, really, she could summon no further energy for protest. She’d suffered through the listless quiet—his punishment. Why couldn’t she have a reward? 

“I think you are afloat and unchallenged. Certainly lonely and desperate for validation, but you do respect your mind. You know you are clever, yes?” 

Sensing a trap and resenting the interruption, she grumbled, “Sir?” 

“Yes, you know. All the same, you are clever, Miss Granger. Unusually so, especially paired with your determination, work ethic, and hunger for knowledge. You have my respect, so I hope you have your own.” 

The tears she’d thought left behind surged forward and fell without warning. She’d been so relaxed. He’d taken her by surprise. And, now, she could say nothing—only be thankful he couldn’t see. 

“And while your peers followed the dictates of their hormones, that determination and work ethic, your ability to prioritize the needs of others above your own, demanded you fragment yourself and sacrifice all nonessential functions, yes? Trivial matters such as your emotional and sexual needs were ignored, stomped down, and punished until acknowledging them felt like failure? Deviating from your chosen identity, that of a walking intellect, makes you feel shameful, indulgent, and weak?” 

Her hands tightened around her thighs. For the millionth time, she ached to escape him, but there was nowhere to go! She’d seen to that. Angry emotions twirled in her chest, and she wanted to dash the moisture from her face, but refused. If she made no sound and no tell-tale motions, he might never know her weakness. 

“Shh,” he whispered, though she’d said nothing. Could he hear her thoughts, now? His hands moved in broader swathes, not so much massaging as petting. “You are beautiful. I suspect, that, you do not know. Not intellectually, or with ethereal grace. You are vibrant with life, close enough to touch,” his hand migrated over her shoulder, down her chest, and cupped her breast without apology or permission; Hermione’s mouth fell open—first in shock and then sensation, “and you are sexy. You ask if I want to fuck you?” 

He had yet to move his hand. It wasn’t massaging or squeezing. His grip was still and firm, her quickened breathing providing the only friction. She should chastise him. Instead, she leaned into his touch. 

“I find myself atypically optimistic, Miss Granger, and I thank you. For some time, I have had little excuse for hope. Now, I hope. I hope your potion is half as wicked as my lust. I hope it provides me an excuse to map every inch of your body with my hands and mouth. I hope it demands I settle between your thighs, taste your cunt, and spend hours there, teaching you to accept pleasure as I manipulate your clit to throbbing, aching need, and teach you to ride my face as I tongue-fuck that tight, virgin hole.” 

Without thought, sitting between his spread thighs, she shifted her hips and sought sensation. His legs tightened at her sides. Then, after a single squeeze of her breast, Hermione voicing a single, blunted whine, his hand shifted to her throat. He didn’t apply pressure; didn’t even close his grip—only ran his fingertips up and dragged them down, his thumb pressed to her collarbone. 

“I hope to make you whine, whimper, and beg. Stretched taut, back bowed, your head will fall back when your folly allows me the privilege of defiling your sweet little pussy. I hope to make it a hungry cunt.” Chuckling, he leaned forward, his lips pressing to the crown of her head as his chest brushed against her back. “You see, Miss Granger? My hopes are atypically expansive. You hesitate to ask if I desire you? I hope to ruin and reshape you. With my teeth.” 

His hand tightened around her throat then, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to react beyond relaxing further. Between her legs, where she was as slippery-wet and ready for him as he’d suggested, she throbbed and ached. She wanted everything he promised. Now. No more talking. Her body shifted as she stretched and arched for him, her chest thrusting forward until she felt her nipples harden further. 

“You respond so beautifully. You thought yourself dormant, but you simply require a firm touch.”

Her chest heaved with her labored breathing. The grip on her throat shifted, offering pressure only in his fingertips and the press of his forearm against her chest and arm. That arm, pinned to her side, ended with a hand laying limp against her upper thigh. She desperately needed to touch herself—never would. 

“Sir….” 

“Yes, Miss Granger?” 

“I—” She broke off the feeble attempt with a toss of her head, his nails biting against her throat as she thrashed. Her lack of courage, or … something, frustrated her to a whine. 

“Be still, woman. You have bared yourself. Acting against instinct will no longer be a requirement.” 

Hermione frowned. “I don’t understand.” 

He freed her throat and leaned forward to whisper against her ear. “Get on your stomach.” 

She all but dove forward, no hesitation. A pained groan escaped as her hard nipples hit the rug. The sensation bordered somewhere between pleasure and pain, and her mind couldn’t make sense of it. Her thighs shifted apart. She yearned to look back at him, but wasn’t sure she wanted to see him, and knew she didn’t want him to see her. Instead, she panted and waited. 

Snape straddled her thighs. At once, she both celebrated his weight framing her hips and bemoaned his position. His hand touched her lower back. He pushed her shirt up, and up, until she growled, reached back to grab the thing, and yanked it over her head. 

“Impatient.” He chuckled. 

It wasn’t funny. Aggravated to honesty, she grumbled, “I don’t need another massage.” 

“So little faith, Miss Granger. As usual, I know something you do not.” 

She pouted. “Do tell.” 

“I had planned to show you. However, if you think you know better and would prefer to dictate my actions, I think we have established you need only—”

“I’ll be quiet. Just … please. Okay?”

His hand landed against her bare back and soothed up and down. “Good girl.” 

She hated him—for an instant. Then, her palms slapped against the floor and her legs twined and writhed. As intense, overwhelming pleasure surged, her mouth parted but her breath caught in her throat. 

“The pleasure empathy has been in effect for some time.” 

One of his hands landed heavy against her back, his fingertips curling and pressing. And, as her breath escaped in a moan, her palms sliding against the floor as sensation teased or roared in turns, Hermione suspected she could guess the location of his other hand. 

“Your hunger eclipsed even my estimation, I must say. I throbbed and ached with you.” 

She cried out, her face contorting in pained, almost ecstasy. But her legs twisted and her fingers dug at the carpet, trying for a satisfying grip but finding only frustration. Wordlessly, she whimpered a plea. 

His nails scrapped against her lower back. “Give me your hand.” 

Tears she couldn’t explain brimmed as she reached back and felt his fingers circle her wrist. He hummed, a purr. “I liked that. Or, we did. Now, the other.” 

With both her wrists held immobile in his grip, she relaxed against the floor with a smile. 

“Miss Granger?” Pleasure shuddered through her and she allowed it. Without the ability to move, she could only feel. Everything, suddenly, was simple and focused. Her body throbbed. “Are you in control?” 

She laughed. “Hardly.” 

“I plan to paint your back with my semen.” 

The humor fell from her face as she nodded. Why she’d want such a thing, she couldn’t say. She did, though. She wanted it with a seriousness that shook her. 

“Are you ready?” 

Her stomach clenched and he groaned. Smile spreading a little wider, she found it wasn’t hard at all to whisper, “Please.” 

“Has relinquishing control made you any less powerful?” 

Her whimper ended with a groan. She chastised him with a grumbled, “Professor.”

He growled. “Master.” 

The word stole her breath, and then her eyes were rolling back. The initial flash of white-hot sensation faded to ceaseless waves of pulsing, toe-curling pressure. Her upper body was stretched taut and held secure. Each time her awareness flitted to it, to his hand at her wrists, she felt bathed in warmth. Her hips were free to rock and grind, but it wasn’t frantic. His controlled, rhythmic pace had crept beneath her skin, and her hips matched it. Circle, shift, and grind. Her head shifted, just as slowly, from side to side. 

Then, she felt him shift, one of his knees sliding against her inner thigh and then the other. As her breathing hitched and shuddered, he widened his stance and forced her legs apart. She wore jeans. Part of her wished she wasn’t. 

“Why have you stopped? Show me.” 

Pleasure licked through her veins and she moaned. Imagining him behind her, between her thigh, dick bared and hard in his grip as he used it to give her pleasure … she shuddered and shifted. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Without planning to, she pulled her knees in, arched her back, and whined as her pussy ached to be filled. 

“Yes,” he hissed. “I will fuck you like this.” 

Her whole body shook, pleasure climbing in leaps and bounds without mercy or warning. “Pro-sir, I….”

“I want you in a skirt. No more wretched trousers.” His panting landed within her, a throb, as she teetered, hungry for it, on the edge. “You understand? I will lick the juices from your thighs as I fuck you with my fingers so nice. So nice … good to you, I promise. Your hands will be bound. Blindfold. Nipple clamps. No. Not yet. Ice first. Such innocent, tender little things. Untouched. I will bite them.” 

He growled as he came. Hermione could only shake and tremble, her body beyond sound as her muscles jerked. Liquid hit her fingertips and palms. Further up, on her back. His pleasure echoed through her as her pussy clenched and released, again and again. Even as his grip on her wrists tightened, the anchor allowing her to accept the overwhelming, echoing onslaught of pleasure, she’d never felt more distinctly empty. 

The pleasure hit a crescendo and twisted into pain. Shaking free of her stupor, she managed to cry out. Then, her hands were free and she was being lifted and pulled backward. She didn’t fight or help him. Could do nothing more than whimper and gasp. She found herself sitting between his spread legs, her back against his chest. Head falling backward to rest against his strength, Hermione reached for his arm and dragged it across her chest. 

“Hold me. Tight.” 

As he encircled her with both arms and squeezed, Hermione going pliant as she sighed, his nose traced a line up her neck before, feathering against her ear, voice husky and deep, he rumbled, “Since you asked.”


	6. Kittens and Puppies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, help? One of my crack tropes feels weak to me, but I can't think of anything better. I'd love to hear any ideas, prompts, or requests for the crack effects/days. And, no. I won't be sharing the others; a little mystery does a story good. Thanks for all the encouragement and support, guys. It means a lot to me. :D

As the pleasure grasping her seized and faded, Hermione wiped her fingers against the inside of her knickers, shook her head—scandalized with herself—and withdrew her hand. When she opened her eyes, her grin faded as she jerked in surprise. Snape laid less than a foot away, on his side, facing her, and watching. 

“Faker,” she grumbled. 

“Obviously.” 

He’d refused to “wake up” and satisfy the potion’s demands. Twice in the night, she’d woken to surges of pleasure shaking her body as he sated the potion. On both occasions, she’d flipped to her belly, wrapped her fingers around the spokes of the headboard, and done her best to silently accept the onslaught until the rush of his orgasm triggered her own. 

Also noteworthy? Apparently, after-sex, clean-up charms existed and Snape knew one. The whole thing felt dirty to her. That he’d anticipated the problem of her arousal and cast a charm to clean her up … it made her feel weird. Not, maybe, in a bad way…. 

This time, he’d refused to “wake up”—Hermione hadn’t been fooled. Still, she’d been left with the choice of angering the tether while she wasted time badgering him awake—again, “awake”—or taking action herself. And, even as she’d resented his heavy hand, she’d replayed the couch event. How much easier would everything have gone if she’d followed his lead? 

With his back turned to her, and him pretending sleep—the faker—she’d known it would never be easier. So … yeah. She had. 

“Was that typical of your pleasure?” 

She threw an arm over her eyes, but her chest rumbled with amusement. “Half marks?” 

“Anemic, at best.” 

“Utilitarian,” she corrected. 

His fingertips slid against the soft, exposed skin atop her tricep. She squirmed and dropped her arm, his touch inspiring an electric charge bordering between ticklishness and pleasure. Bared to his view again, she blushed. Smirked. 

“Repeated orgasms embolden you, it seems.”

Caught between smiling and frowning, she bit her lip. “Is that a problem? Sir?” 

“Not at all.” His hand slid up the mattress to settle between their chests. Hermione’s hand went to her upper arm and traced the remembered line of his touch. “In a nod toward fairness, I will offer you a warning, however. Aggressive impertinence will earn a proportional response.”

Her eyes rolled even as she frowned. “More silence?” 

“You remember incorrectly. I never gave that order. You chose not to speak for three hours.” 

Wait. But … damn it! 

“In any case, genuine punishment and obliging your demands for attention are vastly different affairs.” 

His face appeared impassive, but she heard sex in his voice. Pleasure stirred with curiosity—a newly awakened beast. Feeling both cautious and daring, she prompted, “Oh?” 

“Punishment is meant to instruct and correct, of course, but also to trigger catharsis. It is an opportunity to shed shame and self-hatred by acknowledging your guilt and accepting the punishment you not only deserve, but crave. It is atonement.” 

She looked to the mattress, mouth weighted into a frown, as her chest ached. 

“If, instead, your wickedness is play, then I am permitted to play in turn. Make no mistake, you may still scream, whimper, and cry, but, compared to the pathetic pleasure you offer yourself, the resulting orgasm will be a revelation.” 

Still, she refused to look up at him. “You want me to cry?” 

“You have cried. Did those tears tarnish your enjoyment?” 

Still. Like his promises, she felt both sad and aroused. If she was supposed to like it, she didn’t. Instead of saying any of that, she grumbled, “I don’t see you crying.” 

“You have seen me moping. Your words.” 

She frowned. “Sir—”

“Expressing negativity and pain has never been a hardship for me.” A slight humor touched his voice. “Unlike you, I have never felt the need to feign happiness. In truth, I have rarely indulged the need to express what little contentment I have found.” 

Hermione glanced at him from beneath her lashes. She wanted to look at him, to prove she was listening, but feared any sudden movement would halt his honesty. So, lowering her gaze, she waited in silence for him to continue. 

“Understand? You continually challenge me to equal your feelings of vulnerability, but you demand I bare myself in ways that challenge you, not me.” 

For all she cherished the trust behind his confession, it was a lot to absorb first thing in the morning. She hoped he wasn’t offended by her confused shrug. “What should I ask?” 

He smirked. “An excellent subject for contemplation.” 

“No. Sir … please?” 

His lips quirked. “That will not always work, Miss Granger.” 

She found herself grinning. “This time, though?” 

“Join me in the shower and I will whisper all my secrets.” 

Her eyebrows went up as her lips parted. He couldn’t expect her to take that deal, and she couldn’t make herself surprise him. With a narrow of her eyes, she shook her head. 

“Then you have ample time for reflection. Come, now.” 

~~~

The kitchen smelled fresh and floral. Hermione allowed herself an indulgent sniff, but no more. The stalks of green atop her cutting board were serious business. She’d watched Snape inspect and harvest each specimen with exquisite care, his deep, even voice explaining each step of the ritual. Inside the kitchen, her master class in ingredient preparation had only become more captivating. He’d given her a series of menial tasks—which, at first, had stung her pride something fierce—only, as time passed, and he’d called her to his side, time and again, for explanations and demonstrations, she’d realized the menial tasks allowed her the freedom to learn. 

So, standing above the flower stalks, getting her cut just right, Hermione felt giddy—full to the brim with a warm pleasure fluttering in her chest. Part of it, she knew, originated from Snape. The tasks, which must have been often-repeated and simple for him, were bringing him joy. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe her presence was the cause, but her presence wasn’t tarnishing his pleasure, either. She felt it echoing in her chest, which only made her own happiness expand. She felt … pride, vitality, affection? She couldn’t pinpoint the emotions, exactly, but welcomed them. And, so, when he wasn’t offering instruction or edification, minutes passed in silent, unacknowledged pleasure. 

When she’d brewed the potion, emotional pleasure hadn’t even crossed her mind. It was turning out to be her favorite part. Because … what if he’d felt the same pleasure yesterday while they were working and cooking together? What if she could make herself believe he still felt it tomorrow? 

“Sir? I’m ready for inspection.” 

“You may store and label it. I trust you.”

Oh. She felt surrounded by frolicking, squeezable kittens and puppies. Knowing he felt it, she ducked her chin, but made no effort to diminish the sensation. She couldn’t remember the last time— Nope! Kittens and puppies. She’d take it. She’d take every second of it she could. 

~~~

Fifteen minutes. Neither of them had verbally acknowledged the looming deadline, but both were aware. Snape had finished everything time sensitive or demanding, now occupied himself with cleaning, and … his pleasure had shifted. She felt it. Not puppies and kittens in her chest. Now, his pleasure was a hungry lust in her stomach. 

Hermione felt it, felt the desire pooling between her legs, and took an embarrassing amount of pride from his anticipation. All the same, unspoken words curdled in her mouth and churned her anxiety. 

“Any progress?” he asked without turning. 

She glanced at his back and asked, “Progress?” 

“Summoning your courage.” 

Yeah. That’s what she’d thought he meant. “No.” 

“I would ask that you speak regardless.” 

“Okay. Yeah. The thing is….” 

He turned to lean against the counter—which was not helpful!—and she saw his amused smile. “Yes, Miss Granger? What is the thing?” 

Mockery. Perfect. She waved a dismissive hand at his sass, looked to the ceiling, and said, “First, I need to just say … no sex today. Sex-sex, you know?” 

He smirked. “I am aware of its existence, yes. And your preference has been noted. What else?” 

Anxiety ached in her chest. “Thing is, tomorrow, the potion will make us switch bodies.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Interesting.” 

“Yeah.”

A span of moment passed. Finally, he said, “I hesitate to believe that was the entirety of the thing.” 

Well, he was enjoying himself. Good for him. Hermione wanted to crawl under a rock. “No. Not really.” 

One eyebrow arched. “Must I ask again?” 

“No….” 

He uncoiled from his casual lean, stood straight, and prowled forward a step. “Speak.” 

She spun away from him, sat on the floor, drew her knees to her chest, looped both arms around those knees, and forced her lips to part. “There are, ah, there are certain inevitabilities to the potion. So, to a large extent, it’s not a matter of if, but when, and, so, ignoring reality or pretending ignorance is, truly, ignorant, and, the thing, actually, is ...” her teeth bared in an angry grimace before she forced out, “I don’t want the first time you see and feel my body for it to be your body. Your consciousness inside my body, you know? And vice versa. I’ll have to touch … things for unattractive reasons, and what if it, you know, ruins the mystery and turns us off? So, I’ve been thinking, the least we can do is provide one solid memory of how it should be before it’s wrong. Don’t you think?”

Lust, hot and fierce, curled in her belly. Given she felt positively miserable, identifying its source was not difficult. 

“I find your reasoning extremely sound.” 

She heard herself laugh as her eyes rolled. “You’re….” 

The right word escaped her. Shameless, lascivious, wicked? 

“You expected an argument?” 

“No. I guess … I don’t know.” 

He hummed his displeasure. “Then one of us has failed. I offered you a lecture on the scope and depth of my lust. Was it inadequate, or did pleasure render you deaf?” 

The dry, dangerous delivery would have chilled her blood once. Hermione glanced over her shoulder to narrow her eyes at the man. He smirked in returned. 

Shaking herself, Hermione rose to her feet. Right. Okay. “So, I think the simplest plan would be to make a schedule. There are four mandatory, ah, slots left, so we can split them. Your hands, my hands,” she licked her lips as her chest clenched, “ah, mouth, mouth. Or, the reverse. I can go first. Actually, yeah. I should go first.” 

He huffed. “No.” 

“Fine. I guess you can go first, but—”

“No, Miss Granger. None of that.” 

“But,” she blinked at him, “we need a schedule.” 

“No. Each time I allow you control, you use it to prevent and diminish your pleasure. Until you have broken the habit, you, woman, will do as I say. Nod if you understand.” 

She fidgeted before him, but lust leapt and licked within her. Knowing he could feel it—that he knew the exact effect his words had—made them impossible to deny. With a smile born of embarrassment, she nodded. 

“Be honest.” He took a step forward, Hermione tracking the grace of his body. “The simplicity is freeing, no?” 

Her head lowered in a nod even as she said, “I make my own choices.” 

“You choose to entrust me with your pleasure.” 

As her stomach clenched, he took another step forward. Hermione swayed, tempted both to step closer and to run. With a whine, she asked, “Could you, just … not go overboard? Please?” 

“Elaborate.” 

“The whole, yesterday, with the trembling, and I couldn’t think or breathe?” Her entire body sparked with pleasure as she spoke, but she shook it away. “That cannot be necessary. Perhaps we could aim for something a touch more modest, just to start? Don’t you think?” 

She felt his smug pleasure as he said, “Not at all.” 

“But—”

“You are not in control. Accept that.” 

“But, Sir—”

“You are braver than this.” 

The words, of course, rocked her back and forced her silent—the gravest insult, or, perhaps, a dare. A pout spread as she resented his manipulation, but…. 

Finally, she offered a quiet confession. “Maybe I’m nervous.” 

The pleasure in her chest dimmed a fraction. When she dared to look toward the man, he stood rigid, chin in the air, but something about his eyes gave the impression of a guarded distance. Hermione found herself frowning even before he asked, “Can you trust me?” 

She remembered snapping a cruel response to the same question. She’d cried, ‘Why would I do that?’ Only days ago … a lifetime. Now, she realized she’d hurt him. He did, actually, have feelings. Obviously. Real body, textured surroundings, real feelings. A true, flesh-and-blood man … who had gathered her wrists and held her steady, fulfilling a need she couldn’t have vocalized. A man who made her cry on purpose, not carelessly, and then soothed her chronic wounds with honeyed words and an electric touch. Already, she’d gifted him with degrees of her control; impossibly, she felt liberated and more powerful for it. Still, she didn’t understand, but suspected he did. She remembered the kittens and puppies of their unspoken communion … their effortless teamwork as he’d shared his knowledge and challenged her to learn, to grow, to be her best. 

Couldn’t this be like that? She’d felt so honored when he’d spoken the words he now needed to hear. 

Kittens and puppies. Hermione nodded. “I can trust you.” 

His answering pleasure stirred in her chest. “Very good, Miss Granger.” 

“I can be brave,” she vowed. “I trust you.”

“Strip to your bra and knickers, and lie atop the table.”


End file.
